Dark Allies

  "There is safety as long as we believe in Xant," Prime One said serenely. "For remember, no matter what else we may do to try and head off the Black Mass, the most important thing is our faith. As long as we maintain that, no harm will come to us. If we have taken every possible step, and nothing has averted them, then if we remain here, on Tulaan, to the last… Xant will protect us."

  "We do not know that!" said the Redeemer.

  "Yes. We do. For it is written that—"

  "It is written that the Black Mass is unstoppable! I know! I have read the research, the abortive previous attempts. And we can argue about what Xant wants or doesn't want, tests he may or may not be making. But it is foolishness to simply stand here and let ourselves be devoured by the Black Mass! It would be idiocy to—!"

  The Overlord spoke a word.

  It was one of the more ancient words, and he directed it in such a way that only the one, protesting Redeemer heard it.

  The Redeemer staggered back. The veins on his head began to throb, his eyes went wide, his entire body paralyzed in a rictus of shock as every muscle grew taut, and then his brain exploded. He stumbled back and fell.

  "Now then," the Overlord said, not even bothering to wait until the Redeemer hit the floor. He hesitated only for a fraction of a second as the thud from the Redeemer's falling body reverberated throughout the chamber, and then he continued, "Prime One is quite correct. I did not require the spirit of Xant to speak to me… as comforting and convenient as that occurrence might have been. It is plain to any, aside from our deceased associate, that our faith requires us to remain here. But I do not believe that we must stay on this world, in the event we cannot stave off the Black Mass, and wait to see if the will of Xant saves us. For it is my belief that the saving of the planet itself is the test. That Xant will accept no less from us than the rescue of his birthplace. And I believe, my brethren, that we are up to this task."

  "But how, Overlord?" asked one of the Redeemers, taking a half-step away from his fallen associate so that leaking brain matter would not get on his boots. "How are we to stop them?"

  "Some of you are trained in a scientific bent," said the Overlord. "Which of you is the most trained, the most knowledgeable… in short, the most formidable scientific mind in our service?"

  As one, all of the Redeemers pointed to the Redeemer who was on the floor.

  "Ah. Hmm… that presents a problem, doesn't it? That is unfortunate. Oh well… there are alternatives."

  "Such as, Overlord?" inquired Prime One. He had been more than happy to support the notion that Tulaan IV should not be abandoned. Beyond that, unfortunately, he was not going to be of much help.

  The Overlord steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "Since the last time that the Black Mass swarmed… indeed, for the first time in recorded history… a new element has been added, introduced into what was once Thallonian space."

  "What element is that, Overlord?" "Yes, tell us."

  "Tell us, Overlord."

  So eager they were once more for any shred of hope. This time, however, he actually had an answer for them.

  "The Excalibur."

  There was stunned silence. "TheExcalibur?" said one of the Redeemers. "The vessel captained by Mackenzie Calhoun, the false prophet of Zondar? The one that destroyed a Redeemer ship piloted by Prime One's illustrious predecessor? The one who recently aided a resistance in the M'Gewn sector to the degree that we were unable to spread the word of Xant there and were actually forced, for the first time in our history, to retreat?"

  "The very same," said the Overlord with an air of confidence.

  "But Overlord," began Prime One, and then he paused, obviously to choose the right words. Any sentence that began with "But Overlord" was one that had to be carefully considered and very judiciously phrased. "But Overlord… he is our nemesis. Our sworn enemy."

  "That is correct, Prime One."

  "He will not aid us."

  "Ah, but perhaps," the Overlord said slowly, "perhaps he will. Perhaps that is the pure subtlety of Xant's grand plan. That we are to use this current state of affairs to take one who is a long-standing enemy, and use it to transform him into a helpmate. In this way, we can weaken his resolve. In this way, we can put him on the path to greatness that leads to Xant. For let us not forget, my brethren, that our mandate is not to kill. Not to annihilate. But to help. To teach. And there is quite possibly no one in this entire sector of space more in need of being taught than Mackenzie Calhoun and his crew. To be blunt, my brethren, I have been considering this course of action from the first that I had heard of the Black Mass' imminence. It is my firm belief that we are to employ the resources of theExcalibur in order to serve us. They will cooperate."

  "But how will we force them to do so, Overlord," asked one Redeemer. He glanced at the body of the fallen Redeemer and added hastily, "if I may be so bold as to inquire. You need not tell me, of course. This isn't—"

  "I do not think it will require force," said the Overlord. "There are gentler means of persuasion. We can find ways, for Xant will bless us with the resourcefulness to do what must be done. Let us never forget that Xant is on our side. Praise Xant."

  "Praise Xant," they intoned.

  "Xant is vast. We are insignificant."

  "Xant is vast. We are insignificant."

  That went on for approximately ten minutes, the Overlord leading them in chants praising the greatness of Xant as opposed to the relative lack of greatness of the Redeemers. One would not have guessed, from the look of them, that their leader was capable of dealing punishment or death with a few well-chosen words, or that one of their High Priests could annihilate the population of an entire planet singlehandedly. In short, they did not appear threatening on the surface. But the fact was that the Redeemers, as a race, were the second most deadly force in Thallonian space. Another fact was that the most deadly force in Thallonian space was heading for them, with the destruction of their world inevitable unless they managed to do something about it.

  And it seemed that the key to staving off their world's fate rested with an individual who might well be the third most deadly force in Thallonian space. The outcome of that very unlikely alliance would probably determine which, among those three, would end up as the deadliest force in Thallonian space… presuming that all of them were left alive.

  III.

  Doctor Selar waddled down the corridor and wondered what she had ever done to deserve this.

  She couldn't help but notice that most of the crew seemed to be steering clear of her. They would give her quick "Hello's" or such, but otherwise seemed more than happy to keep their distance from her. She wondered why that would be. She decided that it was just their concept of being solicitous; no one wanted to risk banging into her rather copious stomach.

  Now if she could just get Lieutenant Commander Burgoyne, the child's father, to rein hirself in, that would go a long way toward solving her problems.

  Intellectually, she knew that Burgoyne was just trying to help, just trying hir best. But the Hermat didn't understand that hir involvement in the pregnancy was purely on an as-needed basis. For reasons that completely eluded Selar, she had bonded on some sort of mental level with Burgoyne. It was probably some sort of random, unexpected development as a result of her experiencing a delayed, and extremely erratic, case ofpon farr. It had been completely unpredictable, and frankly, somewhat embarrassing. If Burgoyne would simply realize that—

  She came to a stop just outside her quarters. Her sharp hearing detected something moving within. That was, to say the least, unexpected. She had no idea why there would be any intruders…

  Yes. Yes, she did. Suddenly she knew all too well.

  She took a deep breath, readying herself for what was undoubtedly going to be a very unpleasant scene, and stepped in.

  Immediately she noticed the candles. How could she not? They were set out, along with an elaborately prepared dinner, on the small dining table in the middle of her quarters. Seated on the op
posite side of the table was Burgoyne, hir slender face flickering in the candle light. "Welcome home, stranger," s/he said. "Thought I'd prepare a nice dinner for you."

  "Burgoyne—"

  "Call me Burgy. It's about time you did."

  "And it is about time you left, Burgoyne. These are my quarters. They are private. You cannot simply let yourself in…"

  "Actually, I can," said Burgoyne cheerfully. "I am, after all, the Chief Engineer. With that job comes great power, and with that, great responsibility—"

  "Which you are willing to toss aside at your convenience if it suits your purposes."

  "You see?" Burgoyne was pouring soup into two bowls. "You know me so well. Small wonder then that we belong together."

  "Burgoyne, that would be illogical."

  "Really? How can you tell? Your plomik soup is getting cold, by the way." S/he gestured to the bowl.

  "What do you mean, 'How can I tell?' " She didn't sit.

  "Well, you just carry yourself in exactly the same manner whether you have a headache, or a belly ache, or if your legs are hurting, or…"

  "Is there some point to this, Lieutenant Commander?"

  " 'Lieutenant Commander.' Great Bird, I was going for 'Burgy.' We're backsliding here. The point is, you have this whole stoic thing down so pat, I'd be amazed if you were in touch enough with your own body to know that you have a headache. Are you going to sit or am I going to have to bend your legs at the knees?"

  Selar sat, very stiffly, very properly. She kept her hands placed on her lap. "This 'stoic thing' you refer to is a function of my training and my biology. It is my way of life. They are what make me who and what I am."

  "Funny. Considering you're a pregnant Vulcan, I thought I made you who and what you are. The soup isn't getting any warmer, by the wa—"

  "I do not desire soup."

  "Straight to the entrée, then?" inquired Burgoyne, nonplussed.

  "Burgoyne… I am obviously not making myself very clear. So I shall try to make this as simple and straightforward as possible," said Selar. She noticed that she was over-pronouncing her words with excessive formality and tried to tone it down. "I am someone who, every day of my life, has been in control of it. I knew what I wanted, I knew how to go about getting it. I answered to no master but myself. And I was proud of that. Very, very proud."

  "And you have every reason to—"

  "I am not…" the mechanical tone slipped back into her speech, but she mastered it and said as pleasantly as possible. "I am not finished. Consider, if you will, my situation. I am a doctor, a healer with responsibilities and skills that I have worked very, very hard to hone. Suddenly I find myself at the mercy of an unwanted biological urge that compels me to mate and spawn in a manner more suited to almost any lower order of life form, not excluding humans."

  "That's cold, Selar, even for you."

  "That is exactly my point. As pregnancy, and its attending discomforts, progresses, a Vulcan woman becomes… colder. Stoic. It is a reaction to how we are trained to handle annoyances in a logical, unemotional manner. That I am nearing term means this effect is at its strongest."

  "So it's me."

  She shook her head. "It has nothing to with you…"

  "Oh yes it does," Burgoyne interrupted her. Hir lips were pulled back, hir teeth flashing slightly in the dim lighting. "You are linked, biologically and mentally, with a being that is as emotional as you are unemotional. I am the opposite of what you would like a child of yours to be. So, having partaken of my seed, you no longer wish me around."

  "That is not what is happening."

  "Yes, it is, and it hurts."

  "I hurt as well," she said with force. "Lower back. Spine. Breasts. Head. Calves. The child moves constantly—"

  "S/he's moving?" Burgoyne said with interest. "Can I feel—?"

  "No. To continue, my entire pelvis hurts. I am moving in a manner that makes a horta look like a gazelle. In short, Burgoyne, every physical aspect of me is in a monstrous amount of pain… and I deal with that by becoming what you call colder. I—ow!"

  "What's the matter?" Burgoyne asked, coming around the table.

  "More pain. I am in control again now," Selar said. "And do you know why I am in control. Because I am Vulcan. That breeding and discipline that you hold in such low regard is what will get me through this."

  "I think as long as you deny what's really bothering you—"

  "What is 'bothering me' " she said, making no effort to keep the ice out of her voice, "is you." Burgoyne would have stepped back except that s/he was alarmed to discover that Selar's hand was squarely gripping a rather tender area on hir body. Fully aware of the Vulcan's strength, Burgoyne didn't move a centimeter. Selar continued, her tone still frozen. "It is because of your seed within me that I am having these difficulties. Your presence therefore makes maintaining my control more difficult."

  "That… must be very irritating…"

  "To say nothing of the fact that a Vulcan mother forms a mental bond with her child while it isin utero, and the child in my belly has the most chaotic psi patterns any female in the history of our race has had to experience. Are you beginning to grasp the source of my difficulties?"

  "Actually," Burgoyne said with remarkable restraint, looking down, "I think you're the one who's grasping the source. If you wouldn't mind…"

  It took Selar a moment to focus on what Burgoyne was saying, and then with a grunt she released hir. Then Selar straightened her hair and said, in a more normal manner, "I suppose I should be grateful, to some degree. With my current condition—considering the previously unknown result of a mating between a Vulcan and a Hermat—in a way, I am providing a medical precedent. Thanks to you, my place in history is assured. So… thank you."

  "You're, uhm… you're welcome."

  "But as I said, I am experiencing difficulties that your presence exacerbates. Rightly or wrongly…"

  "Logically or illogically," he said.

  She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement.

  "Your continued endeavors, therefore, to build an emotional bond between us are making things worse."

  "But don't you see that this is the ideal time to … ?"

  "No. I do not see that, Burgoyne. What I see is that you are not susceptible to reason. So I am spelling it out for you: Leave. Me. Alone. Is that clear enough?"

  Very stiffly, Burgoyne said, "Yes. Perfectly clear."

  "Good. Do not concern yourself with the meal; I shall deal with it."

  "All right," said Burgoyne. "Good evening to you, then. I just wish to add—"

  Selar rolled her eyes. "I knew it."

  "I just wish to add that everything I've said is right. That… and I love you."

  Selar came as close to laughing as she ever had. "Love me? Burgoyne… you do not even know me."

  "That makes two of us," said Burgoyne who, apparently deciding that was a good exit line, chose to exit.

  Selar shook her head, then looked down at the table Burgoyne had so lovingly prepared.

  The hell of it was, she really did like plomik soup.

  Mackenzie Calhoun sat in Ten-Forward, nursing a drink and hoping that everyone in the place would understand, without being told, that he just really wanted to be left alone at that moment.

  "Ah. Good," said Si Cwan as he dropped into the chair opposite Calhoun. "Just who I desired to talk to."

  "Uhm… Ambassador…" began Calhoun.

  Si Cwan waved dismissively. "I know, I know," he said in his deep voice which always made him sound as if he were singing when he was speaking. "You hoped to sit here, givingoff unspoken signals that you wished to be alone. However, if you truly wished to be alone, you could sit in your quarters or your ready room. What you are really seeking is interaction and, more specifically, someone interested enough in you to make the effort of breaking through your barriers."

  Calhoun stared at him, trying to form words. "That's… very impressive, Ambassador."

  "Thank you
."

  "And you are that interested in me, that you will make that effort?"

  "In you as a person? To be honest, no."

  "Ah. I appreciate your honesty." Calhoun took a sip of his drink. "Why, then, are you honoring me with your presence."

  "Because you are the commander of this vessel, and I would appreciate your cooperation in a formal request."

  "All right. I'm with you."

  "I need you to maintain noble propriety."

  Calhoun blinked. "You just lost me."

  Si Cwan shifted in his seat and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I have been observing the activities of your son, Xyon. I believe that he has been showing an interest in Kalinda. More disturbing, I believe that she has been showing an interest in him."

  "Ah. I think I begin to see," Calhoun said. "And you find this bothersome."

  "That is correct. That is exactly correct."

  "May I ask why, precisely?"

  "Several reasons." He raised his hand, fingers extended.

  "How did I know you were going to count them off?" Calhoun asked rhetorically.

  "First, Kalinda is still trying to acclimate herself. Until fairly recently, she believed that she was someone else entirely, with an identity created artificially by my enemy Zoran. Thanks to some mental probes through the courtesy of your Lieutenant Soleta, her true personality has reasserted herself, her full memories returned. But that is still a great deal for her to assimilate."

  "Could you possibly use a different word. It has rather negative connotations these days."

  "Second," said Si Cwan as if Calhoun had not spoken, "there is a matter of positions to consider."

  Calhoun stared at him. "Yes?"

  "She is, after all, of the nobility…"

  "Ah."

  "And for someone of the nobility to become romantically involved with…" He drummed his fingers on the table. "…what's the best way to phrase it…?"

  "A commoner?"

  "Yes. Exactly, thank you. A commoner. It's simply not appropriate. Third… well, there is no insult intended upon you, Captain, since I know you were not involved in the boy's upraising."